Fresh Voices - League of Canadian Poets

Fresh Voices

Fresh Voices

a publication project from and for the League’s associate members. Edited by Joan Conway and Blaine Marchand.

Fresh Voices: Tending the Fire

poems by associate members of the League of Canadian Poets

Featuring poetry by: Susan J. Atkinson, Michelle Poirier Brown, Carol Casey, Ellen Chang-Richardson, Shayne Coffin, Pat Connors, Sarah Hilton, Louisa Howerow, Norma Kerby, Shannon Kernaghan, Chloe Lewis, Kelly B. Madden, Laura McGavin, Natasha Ramoutar, Archana Sridhar and David Yerex Williamson.
Edited by Joan Conway and Blaine Marchand and lovingly hand-sewn by Nic Brewer.

Read Fresh Voices

a project from and for the League’s associate members, Fresh Voices is edited by Joan Conway and Blaine Marchand. The League’s associate members are talented poets who are writing and publishing poetry on their way to becoming established professional poets in the Canadian literary community. Please enjoy this showcase of the work of our associate members.

Fresh Voices 20

The Why of It By Louisa Howerow You know before you start you won't succeed in creating the ideal pain français, not the crackly kind you'd buy from a village boulangerie, not even if you follow Julia Child's instructions and advice, accompanied by drawings. Twenty pages worth. You don't have the right flour with its precise gluten strength. You don't have a baker's oven with a fire-brick floor. You still haven't mastered how to form the dough into the shape you want, but you will go at it again and again, because you want your muscles doing, keeping busy, taking you away for seven hours, plus three for cooling down. You like the elastic feel of the dough, its smoothness. The kneading, the scraping, the lifting and the slapping down. Repeat, repeat. Yes! Moving fast, creating a rhythm. No matter how the table shakes, you work that dough, until you're spent. If there was a river, you could beat your wash on rocks, or a carpet to bang out on a fence, but you don't have river or a carpet or fence. All you have are muscles making good, doing something they’re learning to do, believing they can keep death at bay. Louisa Howerow’s poem, “Why Scrabble,” appeared in Fresh Voices, 2019 and was selected for Poem in Your Pocket, 2020.

Time passes By Kamal Parmar 1. Buds open their pouted lips, as tulips unfurl and sculpt into flowers, unblemished and untouched. Warm winds blow, bright reds and golden yellows fade. One by one, the petals, twirl to the ground, the movement of stars and planets. Only a naked stub remains, swollen belly ripens into a knobby fruit. 2. In the approaching dusk, a wing-flutter of swallows, I smell the air laced with the sweet smell of honeysuckle, Walk across the shadow- flecked lane lined with laburnums— so familiar to me, as this is the place where I was born. Nothing is unchanged. My eyes are moist and my feet linger— I was a mere schoolkid, in piggy tails and a heavy satchel, playing hide and seek under the shady laburnum. 3. Time slips away like sand. My clenched fist, unfolds like a petal, my palm, a pod dry and empty of seeds. Kamal Parmar‘s genre is poetry and creative non-fiction. and she dabbles frequently with Haiku poetry. She has a few books published in UK, Canada and India and many publications in reputed US and Canadian literary journals and anthologies. Kamal has been a member of a several writers' organizations and Writers Guilds. Currently, she is an Associate member of the League of Canadian Poets and was former Secretary of The Ontario Poetry Society. She is also a member of Haiku Canada and of The Writers Union of Canada. She is, at present working on a new manuscript of poems.

Strays By Ivana Velickovic In the dry Serbian summer, I submerge myself in water up to my nose. The stray dogs watch me, wait patiently for my alligator crawl back to shore. They launch their flea-ridden bodies up towards my ice cream and chase each other round and round to the point of exhaustion. I do not meet their eyes. At the cottage, we kids eat dinner first, grab at the centre of the bread loaf and at the biggest tomato chunks, leave the uneven pieces of onion for the adults, wash it all down with water cooled in the spidery basement cellar. I place any scraps into a small bag, pretend to take them out to the large metal garbage container. I throw them to the strays, their matted fur, peculiar ears. I do not approach them. In the evening, the kid coalition plays hide and seek, offer our ankles to the mosquitoes become too good at hiding no better at seeking, let the soft bark and trot of the strays nudge us home. I do not pet them. As I walk, swinging my arms, forward back forward back I feel teeth around my hand, resting for an eternal moment, then released without care, delicate skin still intact. In the middle of the hot, dry night I awake to strays howling on the front steps and a smokiness that permeates their stares. Across the water, the trees glow tangerine, rampant red. I gather the strays around, and we watch the flames devour the land, with the lake as our armour. Ivana Velickovic is a poet based in Toronto, working as a writer in the UX design field. She spends her free time vacillating between writing, reading, and listening to music. https://www.ivanavelickovic.com/

At the Lost and Found by Michelle Barker What does it look like, the way back to love? How can I explain what I’ve lost to the matron who runs this office— her conspicuous busy-work, her St. Bernard jowls, the mole on her lip growing one wiry hair. “Well?” she says. “I don’t have all day. What’s missing?” “The 90s,” I say. “My father—you know.” She knows. Behind her on dusty back shelves are the names and photographs of thousands of fathers, lost on Vegas junkets and honey can I buy you a drink? Yellowed birthday cards beside stacks of neckties and wait till your father gets home. She waves a hand. You recognize any? All of them. None. And who am I kidding? Would my life improve if we reconciled? So I’d be allowed into the big house, with the elevator and the dog that doesn’t pee on the rug. So what? Would all the starlings magically assemble on the telephone wires and not shit on the laundry? He would call once a week to advise me how to raise my children. He would chastise me for writing poetry that doesn’t rhyme. We would disagree on movies and he would still tell jokes that aren’t funny. And I would listen, and laugh anyway. Michelle Barker is a poet and award-winning novelist living in Vancouver, BC. She holds an MFA in creative writing from UBC and works as a senior editor at The Darling Axe. www.michellebarker.ca www.darlingaxe.com Twitter: @MBarker_190 Facebook: @MichelleBarkerAuthor https://www.amazon.com/author/michellebarker

Palestine By Patricia MacKay Winds of disquiet blow off Jordan River rustling linens on clotheslines dust whirls along alleyways yellow sun radiates its intensity blasts columns of heat under the dome of a diluted azure sky. Below, children chase a ball across a grassy field hands bathe babies with cotton washcloths pat taboon bread into thin discs reach in heartfelt supplication as the devout make du’a in earnest tension lends to an invasive uncertainty and vigilant eyes dart in fear as winds of disquiet blow off Jordan River. Patricia MacKay is a poet with 18 years teaching experience (English and Creative Writing and Poetry) at the senior secondary level. Her publishing credits include poems ‘Beautiful Daughters (2008), ‘The Skater’s Test (2008), ‘Mallorca 1796’ (2012), ‘Crone and Child’ (2015) and short story, ‘Restitution’ (2010). She was longlisted in the CBC Short Story Prize Contest (2016). She developed BAA curriculum for Peer Tutoring 12 and Peer Tutoring 10 (2004), as co-developed curriculum for Special Ed. programs (2010). She prepared and presented Poetry and Creative Writing Workshops for Cowichan School District 79 (2010-2015) Patricia lives on beautiful Vancouver Island. She lives a simple life that includes writing, music, travel, cooking and knitting.

Mouthful of Eternity By Meena Chopra I pause gasp catch a breath a deep sleep mode as the slumber breaks. Seven colours rise staining the dream sequence hidden in my dark womb. Kiss me with a mouthful of Eternity raid me, tear the vizard apart mould me with clayful reality seed me with coarse fertility an ageless fecundity a handful agility Meena Chopra is an internationally renowned Canada based ' fine artist & poet' of Indian origin with an unbridled passion for words, space, colours and forms. Meena has authored three poetry collections and co-edited one anthology. Meena writes both in English and her ethnic Hindi language. Her poetry and articles have been published in various magazines, journals and anthologies. Meena has been the recipient of numerous national and international awards for her contribution to literature, fine art and community work which includes the recent First Prize by Visual Arts Mississauga Award from National Ethnic Press Council of Canada (NEPCC) in 2018. As a qualified artist-educator, she advocates collaborative experience between the visual arts and other art forms in order to give the audience a comprehensive and vibrant artistic experience thereby “bringing diverse cultures together through arts”. Website: www.meenachopra-artist.comMeena Chopra

Prepare to Dance By Janice Lore Our troupe arrives in a vintage open-top car, the children the dancers me with my wild desire. I am drawn to the man in black tights and tutu. His eyes embers — what once must have been wild fire. But the tutu! Ridiculous! Its feathered netting stands stiffly out from ropey limbs, slackening skin. His lined face a study of concentration, he rolls his long black gloves up his arms, presses the cloth into the fingers’ webbing, tugs them off again, one digit at a time. The prima ballerina does not show. We will dance without her! Tell stories of the children the scorning diva the beloved man. The dance is everything to us. It is our kiss, the possibility of growing into love. Janice Lore writes poetry to explore her psyche and make sense of the world. (It’s premature to speculate on her success.) She has written plays and short stories, makes handmade books, and is inspired by the synergy of interdisciplinary performance work. Her long poem, Ipsissima Verba, was published as a chapbook and staged as a dramatic reading.

The Habit of Hate By Deirdre Maultsaid I know our dark romance: show no fear. You are wily when you throw stones at my window, my terror a zealot. You lean heavily against my door. I imagine your hiking boot with greasy laces, raised for the berserk kick through. Torture is an instrument for fantastical dread. I would tell all to end the waiting. If I tilt my head, I can count the wooden floorboards near my chair. Why can’t the halos of floor sheen heal me? My hate tastes of you, and I choke on it, secretly. Long ago, we invented the exquisite gate between us and Coming Out. We were hidden gods once, and I was sorry. I don’t mean here, I don’t mean now. You made my heart a thinning, twanging fibre. You made my mind a card deck: worn, nicked with cheat signals. You made my mother a bigot, dwindling, polishing grudges. How can I draw you in a few thin lines, your rage one tiny dot? How can I uncolour the past? I cannot. I do not. I make mistakes, but still I yearn for the risk. Still I crave the spangled fame of heartsickness. Deirdre Maultsaid has been published in The Barcelona Review, Canadian Women’s Studies, Canthius, CV2, Filling Station, Pif, Prairie Fire, the Puritan, the White Wall Review and others. Deirdre Maultsaid (she/her) is a queer writer living in Vancouver, Canada on the unceded territory of the Coast Salish People. She teaches at Kwantlen Polytechnic University. More information at www.deirdremaultsaid.com and @deirdmaultsaid

chinatown For Jim Wong-Chu, Poet 1949-2017 I don’t know it the way he knew it but I remember pender street as a girl keefer and shanghai alley roast ducks in windows cabbages over doorways waiting in the rain for the dragon saving my allowance for boxes of cocktail umbrellas and paper fans when I moved away and was homesick I sought out that memory in food toffee banana fritters in norwich steamed noodles on gerrard in london boxes of frozen spring rolls and dumplings from wing yip’s in croydon then ginger beef in nicosia up the hill in engomi watching the glittering lights of the north across the green line memories made me brave now back in vancouver I pack sticky rice wrapped in bamboo leaves for my children’s school lunch By Martha Warren Martha Warren is a writer and poet. Her subjects have ranged from fairy stories, to cooking, to aspects of law. Her most recent project is the ebooklet, mother talk, a collection of ten poems on motherhood by emerging Vancouver poets. A graduate of Simon Fraser University’s Writer’s Studio, Martha’s work has appeared in The Canadian League of Poets’ Poetry Pause, Headline Press, the Red Alder Review, and others. @m_warren_writer www.carnationpublishers.com

Bourbon By Angel Edwards Baltic amber earrings velvet gold turban crimson fingertips clutch a decanter of bourbon aquamarine eye shadow blue broach from past birthdays cherry smeared lip gloss on cigarettes in ashtrays flat gold floppy slippers silken day night wear filled plates for no guests an empty golden chair baltic amber earrings velvet gold turban crimson fingertips clutch a decanter of bourbon Angel Edwards has performed as a solo artist singer songwriter guitarist around the Vancouver area for over 30 years. She has written three books of poetry and this is her fourth book. Her short stories have been published by

A Girl is Capable of Baiting Hooks and Drowning Worms in a River By Lesley-Anne Evans We hunt night crawlers on damp grass with flashlights after supper. Next afternoon Grandpa takes us down the back road to Conestoga; a silent bend in the wide river Grand. The banks where we eat tuna buns with pickles, and watch our bright bobbers hover over the lazy flow. Years later I find a photograph — me, with a catfish hooked on a weigh scale. My face is grey as a worm submerged for a time under water. Lesley-Anne Evans belongs to four acres of woodland in Kelowna, British Columbia. She is a poet, photographer, librettist, and arts facilitator, born in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Lesley-Anne’s immersion in nature, creative practice, and contemplative spirituality continue to save her life. Lesley-Anne’s poetry is published in literary journals, and she recently won the 2019 British Columbia Federation of Writer’s Literary Prize. Her first poetry collection, edited by Harold Rhenisch, is making the rounds of publishers. Lesley-Anne is an Associate Member of The Canadian League of Poets, and a Member of the British Columbia Federation of Writers.

in the garden By Renée M. Sgroi so much depends* on your voice, echoed inside a cracked wheelbarrow the hollowness of your tone, tined and faltering through a fault metal *The first line of this poem is taken from William Carlos Williams’, “The Red Wheelbarrow” Renée M. Sgroi edited the anthology, Written Tenfold (Poetry Friendly Press) and her first book of poetry is due for publication (erbacce-press) this December. She is the current president of the Brooklin Poetry Society in Brooklin, Ontario (https://brooklinpoetrysociety.com). Her work has appeared in Synaeresis, Prairie Fire, The Prairie Journal, The Banister, Verse Afire, and various anthologies published by Beret Days Press. You can find her online at https://reneemsgroi.com, and on Twitter @ReneeMSgroi and Instagram @renee_m_sgroi.

Fresh Voices 19

Poem: the whiff of a dream lingers a faint scent taunts memory whispers of a past forgotten crispness of now dampened End of poem. By Tony Brathwaite Author info: Tony Brathwaite was born in Ontario and spent most of his life moving around the province. Now based in St. John’s, he has been exploring and living in Newfoundland since 2005. Arranging words with varying degrees of intensity for most of his life, he has had poems printed in several publications. He has released one solo collection of poems, Fragments (2002) and a collaboration of artwork and poetry, “an other being” (2017) together with his partner. He has performed at readings in Ontario, Nova Scotia, and Newfoundland.

The Trees are Shaking in the Rain By Corina Gugulus Water pours along the pavement and it washes the people’s black shoes. The city smells like rain. People rush along the streets while they cover their heads under umbrellas. A woman in a black velvet dress strolls quietly down the street. She has no umbrella and her long blond hair drips. In the rain, she saunters. While the trees shake down their wet. The woman stops, looks at the sky, then at the trees. Water drops from her hair, pours into each wrinkle of her face along the edge of velvet, down deep into her heart. The woman smells the rain while the trees discreetly watch and then stop their shaking in the rain. A graduate of York University (2011), Corina Gugulus holds a Certificate in Creative Writing from University of Toronto (2017). A collection of her poems, Optical Illusions (Timpul, 2016), was published in Romania. Her poem “Sour Cherry” won Honorable Mention in Prairie Fire’s competition in 2015.

Poem title: BLESSED poem author: Danny Peart Poem: “Count your blessings boy.” Grandma Lena Peart The older lady across the street from us walks directly up to me, looks me in the eye, says “You are blessed.” Then turns back to her home. At Figaro cafe, Beatrice comes to my table, says, “Evermore thanks.” She has heard that I am the poet, this note ends my recent book. We talk of music, Leonard Cohen, I sign the book she buys. She looks at me, voice trembling, “You are blessed.” This gives me pause - am I more blessed than others? Can this blessing last? Both of my parents alive and well, my brother and sisters held close in love with my wife, two healthy and interesting sons. No one wants to hear : “There’s a call for you.” “You’ll need to be brave.” Brave enough to say goodbye to one or more of my blessings. End of poem. Author info: Danny Peart currently resides in Vancouver, B.C. In 2012, he published a slim volume of poems, cheerfully titled Ruined By Love. The collection was guided by Aislinn Hunter. (Milagro Press) In September 2014, his poem Elder Raven was selected in a competition by BC Transit and the Association of Book Publishers of BC to be posted in bus shelters for the month of October. In 2016, he published a collection of stories and poems titled Stark Naked in a Laundromat. This book was edited by Zsuzsi Gartner. In 2018, he published a collection of poems titled Another Mountain to Climb. Edited by Aislinn Hunter. He is most comfortable reading and writing in a quiet café. Though he seeks the mountains often for hiking, skiing and snowshoeing. www.dannypeart.net

Poem title: A Journey poem author: David G Malcolm poem: Diagnosis? The words – you have cancer, put me on death row. The cold grey iron foe lurks just behind the door, a hide-and-seek monster with a face of darkness and dismay. Waiting for the ax to fall, for the pale bloodless skin of death Cancer – evil incarnate, trails a long black cloak, smothers each victim. Sexless – not man or woman, outside time and space. Yet – wind and oak whisper, cherish the mistletoe, a mystery healer. Choose life, hope – believe and thrive – each day a blessing end of poem. Author info: Dr. David G. Malcolm holds BE and MSc degrees in Mechanical Engineering from the University of Saskatchewan in Canada, and a PhD in Engineering Science from the University of Warwick in the United Kingdom. He is a member of NorthWords NWT, the Saskatchewan Writer Guild, the League of Canadian Poets and the Writers Union of Canada. He is a Stage 4 Renal Cell Carcinoma cancer survivor, which has prompted on-going writing projects on providing hope in cancer recovery. David has spent many years writing fiction, non-fiction and poetry, including non-fiction in a number of natural science and social science disciplines in the Circumpolar North.

Poem title: Blue Is Bigger Than Brown Poem author: Harry Posner Poem: I want to say blue is bigger than brown I want to tuck it shade by shade into the manifold curtain that slides across my mind when I wake at 3 in the morning and the world is an untenable thing I want to pull the indigo flecks out of the shadows that snap at my harried heels like hungry hounds and use them (unsuccessfully) to pay for coffee at the French Press I want to watch teal do a lap dance for cobalt coins because it’s always so damn oh I don’t know sedate but that isn’t very likely I want to run my fingers across the blue ridge mountains of a blue baby’s heart scar and think of the fragility of Time I want to pile robins eggs into a giant pyramid in the centre of my overly furnished psyche then shuffle around it chanting om mane padme hummmmm to the beat of an oom pa pa band I want to salute a naval-haired Prussian admiral whose been hung out to dry like an old ship in dry dock and tell him it’s not so bad being invisible I want to suck on a cerulean sky and spit out the celestial toxins maybe save a swallowful for myself but overall the whole sapphire foofaraw peacocking around the joint like a feather boa wrapped round a choochy queen well, just thinking about it gives me the blue suede hues sometimes I think this whole blue business is just a pigment of my colour blind imagination and what I really want to do is lock my cynical self away inside a lacquered vermillion box (invisible to an azure heaven) the surface of a cyanide pill lapped at by a tired pebbled tongue. End of poem. Author info: A member of Words Aloud poetry collective, the Headwaters Writers Guild, Writers Ink Alton, and Associate Member of the League of Canadian Poets, Harry Posner is the author of six books and three spoken word CDs. He is Dufferin County's Poet Laureate, organizer and host of the annual Day of the Poets festival in Orangeville, Ontario, and co-host with Peter Noce of The Sill podcast (www.thesillpodcast.com). His novella Peggy Lee’s Delicious Lips, the winner of the Ken Klonsky Novella Competition, was published in December of 2019 by Quattro Books.

Poem title: Garment Poem author: Kelly Madden poem: Nice sweater, goes nice with those pants and so affordable made in Bangladesh a week before the fire thin fingers that pushed the garment through are buried under rubble now End of poem. Author info: Kelly B. Madden writes poetry, fiction, children’s stories and songs. Her work has appeared in Island Writer’s Magazine, Reckoning 2 and elsewhere. She lives in the Comox Valley, BC.